Roomful of Navels
You moved in next door. I introduced myself. You hugged me and adjusted your cap. I watched the awed crowd at the Acme as you mimed Deniro in ‘Taxi’ and was with you when you u-turned your VW at a yellow light instead of making a decision. I was the only neighbor who knew you let the dog out and got the paper in bra and panties, explaining over coffee that you didn’t leash Lassie either and besides no one’s up that early. Pickles and milk for breakfast, mescaline for lunch. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, by the way its best with jazz. Sat bewitched watching ‘Once upon a time in the West’, read all of Kafka, Kierkegaard and Sartre. And then there was the room. Three boulders and a sheet of slate coffee table where you studied your round rock collection and hung hundreds of drawings of navels - covering the walls and ceiling, self portraits, you said, but no two were alike. They boarded up your house when you disappeared, the neighborhood pretended you never happened. I’m working now and have my own place. The drawing you gave me is on the door to the freezer and I think of you like ‘getting a beer’ often - or when someone mentions belly-buttons or conformity. There are polished stones in the fridge on the shelf next to the pickles.Craig Kirchner. |
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